


Familiarity

by ginger_rude



Series: For Want of a Nail [3]
Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Anxiety, Character Study, Developing Relationship, Drinking & Talking, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Episode: s04e04 Marry Fuck Kill, Family Issues, Food, Grief/Mourning, LGBTQ Themes, Love, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, POV Alternating, Suicidal Thoughts, more tags would mean spoilers, what does one do about that anyway
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-06
Updated: 2019-06-27
Packaged: 2020-04-11 19:21:11
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 10,554
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19116097
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ginger_rude/pseuds/ginger_rude
Summary: Part two of an ongoing series that splits off from canon at the end of S3.  Alice blocked the magic siphon at the very last moment, setting in motion a chain of other changed decisions.  Much of the outcome diverges from what follows in canon.  Some things do not.Picks up immediately after the end of part one,“Defying Gravity.”Eliot and Quentin, having decided to explore a real relationship, go back to Earth.  As it turns out, the return of magic has  at least one sadly predicted result.





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A few lines are ganked more or less directly from S4E4, "Marry, Fuck, Kill."

As usual, the first thing that hits Quentin is the smell: that distinctive admixture of diesel, garbage, hot dog steam, piss, wet concrete, cheap pot, cheaper incense, and—blessedly—a hint of rain. Getting his bearings, he lets go of Eliot’s hand, and immediately is nearly run over by a speeding businesswoman.

“Probably, we should get out of the crosswalk,” says Julia.

It doesn’t help much: they've popped up near Herald Square, at what appears to be the middle of morning rush hour. Quentin shrinks back against the nearest solid wall and attempts to blot out the cacophony by burying himself in his phone. Julia joins him.

“Where’s Penny?” he asks. 

“He…disappeared. As he does. Where’s Eliot?”

Quentin gestures vaguely. “I think he went to go find a paper.”

“You’re kidding,” Julia says. 

“Yeah, he’s actually pretty analog. I think he’d have a manservant iron his newspaper every morning in Fillory, if they, like, had newspapers. Or irons. My phone’s being really weird right now.”

“You, too? Mine’s always fucked up on re-entry. Last time, my texts were all in Old Church Slavonic, and Google Maps kept showing up as something called ‘Inscapes.’”

Eliot comes up behind them, bearing a rolled-up Times and a pack of Dunhills. He offers one to Julia.

“I thought you and Q were in Brooklyn,” he says around a cigarette.

“I’m in the Slope. I think Penny thought he was taking me home. I told him it’s fine, I can totally take the subway, but it was kind of…awkward. Don’t smirk.”

“I’m not,” says Quentin. “Oh—I’m not anywhere—well, we’re not anywhere.” He looks at Eliot. “I mean, obviously we can’t go to Brakebills.”

“Right,” says Eliot. “Shit. Even the Cottage? I thought we were independently owned.”

“We can’t risk it,” says Quentin.

“You can always stay with me,” says Julia. She looks from Quentin to Eliot. “Do you—do you both need a place to crash?”

“Well,” says Eliot. Quentin realizes after a moment that they're both probably looking at him, but he's distracted.

“I have over 300 new messages,” he says.

Eliot unfolds his newspaper. “Guys.” He taps the date: October 4. 

“Shit,” says Julia. “I knew that happens in the books, but did any of us run into it before? You’ve gone back and forth a lot more.”

“Occasionally,” says Eliot. “In my experience, it’s been fairly synced up. I _thought_ it was unseasonably tolerable for July.”

Quentin is barely listening. “There’s a lot from my mom,” he says. He looks up at Julia. “The last one’s from yesterday.”

“Oh,” she says. “…Oh.”

“Transcribe isn’t loading,” he says, “and I can’t hear anything here. Um…” 

He stares blankly into the madding crowd. There seems to be some kind of demonstration going on at the far end, with police in the mix. He can't tell if that's actual smoke drifting in their direction, or just drizzle. Nearby, an elderly man feeds bits of his salted pretzel to the cockatoo perched on his head. 

Out of the corner of his eye, he catches Julia mouthing “his dad” in response to Eliot’s querying look. 

The voicemail transcription loads. He reads it. Closes his eyes. 

Julia's lightly touching his arm, guiding him. Eliot’s hand, strong and solid with the cool weight of rings, rests on the back of his neck. 

Somehow, they’re now squeezed into a diner booth, Eliot next to Quentin; Julia, across. A bowl of soup is in front of him. He pokes a spoon into its watery yellow depths, extracting rice and shreds of chicken.

“I thought soup might be easier,” says Julia. 

He swallows. “She wants me to come help her with the house. As soon as possible.” 

“Want me to come?”

He shakes his head. “You’ve just been through a lot, Jules.”

“Honestly, I’m fine,” she says. “I want to help.”

“You are helping. But, I already missed the funeral. I missed everything leading up to it. There’s nothing you can say to my mom that’ll change that.”

“I could say that it’s not your fault,” Julia says.

“I mean, no offense, Jules, but…”

“But she already hates me and won’t trust anything I say anyway?”

He grins a little. “Seriously, though, I’d feel better if you take care of yourself right now.”

“All right, so we’ll go,” says Eliot. 

Quentin looks at him. “What?”

“Mothers love me. I’m sure they would. No one’s actually brought me home to meet one before; new experiences. We’ll be out of your hair,” he says to Julia. He touches Quentin’s hand. “And you won’t have to do this alone.”

“I, um,” says Quentin. He's aware of Julia blinking mildly at them across the table. “Are you sure? It’s not going to be, you know, a fun trip…”

“The last thing you need to worry about right now,” says Eliot, “is providing me with fun.” He smiles. “I’ll manage.”

A harried looking waitress piles more food on their table. Quentin helps himself to a fistful of Julia’s home fries and ordered a plate for himself; he suddenly realizes that he's ravenous. He focuses on his breakfast, head down, letting Eliot and Julia’s light chit-chat patter pleasantly around him. 

Eliot gets up to use the bathroom. Quentin looks up at Julia. 

“Jules, I…thank you.”

“Of course,” she says. “My God.”

“No, I mean…for everything. What you gave up.”

“Oh,” she says. “That. You know? I’m not ready to talk about it. Sorry.”

“Okay,” he says. “Sorry. Whatever you need. I just…I hope it’s okay to say this. I know it’s selfish, but I, um. Am really glad you’re still around?” 

The table swims in front of him. She squeezes his hands in hers, silently. 

“I am, too,” she says, very quietly. “Now, anyway.”

He fumbles for a napkin; she passes him a handful. They look at each other, both watery, and laugh.

“So,” she says, inclining her head in the direction of Eliot’s departure. “When did this happen?”

Quentin's just taken a mouthful of toast. That actually isn’t a simple answer, is it? He ruminates.

“Been coming on for a while,” he says finally.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eliot and Quentin take a road trip to the magical hills of Jersey. 
> 
> "Eliot doesn’t drive often, but when he does, he likes to imagine he’s in a Fellini film."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are a number of lines ganked from s04e04, "Marry, Fuck, Kill," more or less verbatim, but remixed.

Eliot doesn’t drive often, but when he does, he likes to imagine he’s in a Fellini film. Neither the rental Subaru nor the New Jersey Turnpike lend themselves particularly well to this fantasy, but Eliot’s a past master of making do. (He pretends not to see Quentin’s foot pressing an imaginary brake). A portal would have been simple, but Quentin thought the drive would, as he put it, “clear my head.” 

At the moment, he looks less clear than green, does Quentin. Understandable. Death, family, and cow flatulence: all things Eliot spent most of his life running away from. Who knew Jersey had actual farms? 

Siri drones at him. Almost there. He snaps the radio off. Quentin, staring out the window, stirs slightly.

“Oh,” says Eliot. “Did you want it on?” 

Quentin makes an equivocal gesture. “…Yeah, actually. If you don’t mind.”

Eliot complies. Taylor Swift. Noted. Or, just a needed distraction, he supposes.

“Why does your mother hate Julia?” he asks.

“Hm?…Oh. ‘Hate’ might be too strong. She just doesn’t like her. My mom…she’s. She’s kind of, um—so, you know how we’ve been friends since we were kids? My mom still thinks she’s, like, a bad influence.”

Eliot laughs. “Julia?”

“I know, right? Well, for a long time she loved her, because she’s amazing academically—at everything. I think my mom thought she’d pull me up to her level. I guess eventually she figured out it was never going to rub off, so…maybe she thinks Julia could’ve helped more if she really wanted, I don’t know.” He pauses. “That, and the time we got into the liquor cabinet and she came home while we were wasted. That’s probably most of it.”

Eliot laughs again. “How old were you?”

“Uh, thirteen, I think.”

“That seems like a long time to hold a grudge,” Eliot says.

“Mm,” says Quentin. He looks out the window again.

The house, a modest compromise of brick and weathered wood, sits back on a yellowing lawn, well distanced from either of its neighbors. There’s a new Prius parked neatly in the driveway. 

A small bespectacled woman awaits them at the front door. She blinks at Eliot.

“Mom,” says Quentin. He busses her cheek. “This is my, my boyfriend, Eliot. He came with me to help with the, um. Everything. I hope that’s--“ He seems to stop himself. 

Eliot puts on his best Eddie Haskell smile and extends a hand. “So good to meet you, —“

“Joy,” she says.

“Joy,” repeats Eliot, drawing the word out just a fraction. “I’m so sorry. I can imagine what a difficult time this must be. I’d like to do whatever I can for you and for Q, obviously.”

“Well,” she says. “Apologies. The circumstances…” She looks at Quentin. “Come in.” 

They follow her into the darkened interior. “Nice to meet you,” she calls over her shoulder. 

Eliot puts a hand on a doorknob. “Is this..?” 

“Down the hall,” says Quentin. He trails after his mother. 

Eliot takes his time freshening up; it’s been a long and grimy couple of days. When he emerges, he’s a little disoriented. He finds them in a large, hangar-like room, two stories high, and indeed filled with airplanes: model planes, all sizes and eras. He pauses in the doorway.

“..the only millennial I know who isn’t buried in his phone 24/7,” Joy is saying. 

“I know,” says Quentin. “I’m sorry. I was traveling, and I was out of range for a lot of—“

“Yes,” says Joy. “I can see you’ve been busy.”

“It wasn’t like that, I—Mom. I’m sorry. I just…”

“I didn’t want to be here at all, you know,” she says. “There was no one else.” 

Quentin looks at the floor. She surveys the room as if help might be found in one of the corners, or in the form of divine intervention via the skylight. 

“What was wrong with him, huh? People make friends. That’s normal. He was normal. I divorced him, he was so normal, so—where are his goddamn friends? There was no one at the funeral.”

“I don’t know,” Quentin says softly. 

“Molly is furious. You know how she felt about Ted.” She laughs shortly. “I suppose it’s too much to ask that you’d pick any other time to bring someone home. At least it’s a good sign. You don’t want to end up like him.” 

If there’s a suitable response, Quentin doesn’t provide it. 

“All right,” Quentin says finally. “So. We pack up these boxes, and—“

“Uh huh,” says Joy, “unless you want to keep all this junk. I found someone upstate who’ll take them off your hands, but you have to get it done by tomorrow.” She looks around the room again. “I don’t know why he made so many of them.”

“He liked planes,” Quentin says quietly. 

“A ‘creative outlet,” she says, with air quotes.

“He’s dead, Mom,” says Quentin. “I think we can stop criticizing him.”

Eliot clears his throat softly. They both seem startled by the reminder that he’s there, despite his being the recent subject of their conversation. 

“Joy,” he says. “I’m so sorry for everything you’ve been through. You must be exhausted. I’m wondering if we can take you to dinner. I’d like to.”

Quentin is looking at him as though he’s sprouted another head. Joy doesn’t seem much less disconcerted.

“That’s…very generous of you,” says Joy. “I’m afraid I’ll be busy with more paperwork for the rest of the day, but thank you.”

“It’s the least I can do,” says Eliot. “I’m intruding here, and, to be honest, I’m responsible for the difficulty we ran into during our travels. It’s a long story. What about this: We’ll square away the packing, and then tomorrow…brunch? Dinner? Whatever’s convenient for you.”

She still looks slightly bewildered. “There’ll be two of us. If that’s all right, we can meet you here tomorrow afternoon.”

“Molly’s here?” says Quentin. Joy doesn’t respond.

“That sounds perfect,” says Eliot. 

“Well,” says Joy. “Thank you.”

“We can take it from here, Mom,” says Quentin. He’s been fidgeting.

“All right,” says Joy. She steps to Quentin, brushes his bangs from his forehead. “Be careful.” 

Quentin doesn’t move or speak until she’s gone. “Why.”

“Like I said,” Eliot says airily. “Mothers love me.” He looks at Quentin. “Seriously, it’s something I’ve learned over the years: a little kindness can go a long way. It takes people off their guard. They don’t know what to do with it.”

“Yeah, but—“

“And she’s your mother, and it’s complicated, but she’s not mine, so. It works out.”

“Yes,” says Quentin, “but now we have to sit down and eat an actual whole meal with them.”

Eliot shrugs. “How many restaurants here have liquor licenses? Or at least beer and wine?”

“Uh, probably most of them.”

“It’ll be fine.”

“Molly doesn’t drink,” says Quentin, a little sullenly. He begins to pull the flattened cardboard into boxes. Eliot joins him.

After a while, Eliot says, “Who’s Molly?”

“My mother’s partner,” says Quentin, as though it should be obvious. Which, Eliot supposes it should be.

“How long have they been together?”

Quentin pauses to consider. “I think they were already dating by the time the divorce went through, when I was five, but she didn’t move in for another year or so.”

He starts to pack the first plane in tissue paper. Eliot is still looking at him. “What?”

“I didn’t know you had two mommies.”

Quentin snorts derisively. “If that’s what you want to call it.”

“It’s just incredibly different to me,” says Eliot. “I can’t even imagine that where I grew up.”

“Right,” says Quentin. “Sorry. I guess I take things for granted, sometimes. I thought everyone was bi for a long time.”

“Really,” says Eliot.

“Dumb, right?” says Quentin. He tapes a box shut, moves on to the next.

“Including you?” 

“I mean, yeah,” says Quentin. Eliot absorbs this.

“So,” he says carefully, “you were able to…date? Nobody bothered you? At school, or…”

“I…okay, so, mostly it was theoretical anyway. Maybe more people would have. There was a club, I mean, we were sort of progressive, but people got beat up, too. Mainly I was just kind of invisible.” Quentin laughs a little. “I thought I was going to grow up and marry Julia. Not like I ever actually told her, or anything. God, I was such a ‘nice guy.’” 

Eliot wants to ask more questions, but Quentin’s just snapped a wing off a plane. He stands there, looking at it.

“Goddamn it,” Quentin says quietly.

“Okay, so,” says Eliot, “you fix it. Right? That’s why we’re Magicians.”

“Yeah,” says Quentin. He sits down, broken plane in hand. He looks up at Eliot.

“That’s what I did when I showed him, you know.”

“Showed him…?”

“My dad,” says Quentin. His voice is low. “I fixed one of his planes.”

“With magic,” says Eliot. Quentin nods. “In front of him.” 

“Uh huh.”

“You came out to your dad?”

Quentin is startled into a laugh. It’s the first time Eliot’s seen him laugh out loud since…well, a long time, actually.

“I never thought of it that way,” Quentin says, “but you’re right. That’s exactly what it was.”

He mends the plane. He looks at it, resting in the palm of his hand.

“That’s pretty special,” Eliot says quietly.

Quentin blinks rapidly and looks away. “Yeah.” 

Eliot sits. They’re both silent for a little while.

“He, um.” Quentin clears his throat. “He was a funny guy. It’s true, he was always pretty alone. I don’t know why. He just—lived his life the way he lived his life, I guess. I remember before he left, my mom used to get really upset because he’d go in a room and close the door and not talk to her. She thought he was punishing her—I mean, she still talks about it. But I think maybe he just needed to be by himself, more than—most people.” He laughs a little bitterly. “More than ‘normal.’”

“Normal is highly overrated,” says Eliot.

“No shit,” says Quentin, but he’s smiling a little. 

“And he knew what he loved,” says Eliot. 

Quentin looks away again. “She calls them ‘junk.’” His voice is rough. “Why am I doing this, if it’s all junk?”

“Because it wasn’t to him,” says Eliot.

“We’re packing up model planes all night so some random guy can come take them away, and—I don’t even know; is he supposed to be paying us? Did she even say?”

“Do you want to keep them?” asks Eliot.

Quentin raises a hand and lets it fall into his lap. “I—don’t—Where would we even put them?”

“You know we can make unlimited storage space,” says Eliot.

“Yeah…and then I’d probably just leave them sitting there. No. I guess not.” He’s quiet. “Maybe just one.”

He turns a wrist, curls and uncurls three fingers, makes a “come here” motion. A single small plane detaches itself from the ceiling and wings its way down to Quentin’s cupped hands.

“This is the one I fixed for him,” he says. He sets it very gently to the side. Then he stretches. “God. How many more do you think are left?”

“You know,” says Eliot, “we’ve been doing this the hard way, and there’s actually no reason.”

He stands, flexes his hands, and goes through a precise, rapid series of motions. A box snaps into formation. A plane glides off the wall and neatly settles itself into the box, nestling into the tissue paper that furls itself around it.

Quentin slowly gets to his feet and does the same. Another. Another. Soon, the air is humming with planes, and the rustling of cardboard. The two of them gesture and point like small-scale air traffic controllers.

Eliot makes a great maestro-like sweep with both hands: half a dozen planes arise at once and fall into formation.

“Show-off,” Quentin says pleasantly.

They’re almost done. They slow down, playing a little, letting one plane chase another around the room, all swoops and dives and loop-the-loops. They’ve gotten so well practiced that they can do it with one hand apiece. Quentin slips his free hand into Eliot’s.

“He would love this,” says Quentin.

They stand, hand in hand, looking up at the dance they’ve created. Late afternoon sunlight pours down from the skylight, bathing the planes in silver as they soar toward their final destination.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I found these in the back of the closet, behind all the junk. I can’t believe they were just sitting here all these years.” 
> 
> Eliot quirks an eyebrow. “Fillory?”
> 
> “No,” says Quentin. He laughs a little. “Pretty much every other book I used to read, before I got obsessed with Fillory...”

In the civilized world, it’d be time for a very dry martini. (Much as Eliot prides himself on his creations, he does appreciate the classics. There’s a time and a place for everything). Instead, he’s now poking through a deceased suburbanite’s battered brown fridge, in search of, God help him, a cold beer. To be fair, “cold” is the operative word; he’s got his flask, but he’s never quite gotten the hang of temperature adjustments. 

He unearths a Coke, and he’s just about to doctor it with rum when, from the other room, Quentin startles him into dropping it:

“Shit! Shit, shit shit…”

Eliot comes running. “What happened?”

Quentin gestures wordlessly. Eliot follows his gaze around the room. Sparsely furnished in Late-Modern Shabby Comfortable, scattered with stacks of cardboard boxes and other packing material: there’s nothing he hasn’t already seen. He looks quizzically at Quentin.

“What am I looking at?”

“She left more boxes. And there’s, there’s—she didn’t say the whole fucking—goddamn it. The furniture. How am I supposed to—” Quentin flings his arms up.

“Okay,” Eliot says. “I’m trying to follow you, here. There are more boxes, yes. So…?”

“So,” says Quentin, as if explaining why the sky is “up” to a particularly obtuse and persistent child, “it’s not just the planes. She wants the whole goddamn house packed up, or, or, I don’t know what she wants, that’s the point. Look. That couch is crated. Those chairs aren’t. These boxes can fit the pictures and books, maybe a couple of lamps, but there aren’t enough to go around and there’s nothing to put the big furniture in so what are we supposed to do, Eliot?”

“I have no idea,” says Eliot, who truly doesn’t. “But, okay, let’s try to calm down.”

“Fuck,” says Quentin. “You don’t—God—“ He takes a deep, shaky breath. He speaks slowly. “Whatever I do, it’s going to be wrong. Understand?”

“You…think she wants us to pack everything in the house. But, you’re not sure.”

“Right,” says Quentin. “Because I forgot to ask.”

“Okay, so,” says Eliot. “Can you call and ask her now? Text?”

Quentin just laughs and shakes his head. 

“Okay,” says Eliot. He’s really missing that spilled drink right now. 

“No. Sure. I can,” say Quentin. “It doesn’t matter. You’ll see. Or—no, you won’t, because this is how it goes. There’s something she expects, and I fuck it up. If try to figure out what I fucked up and how I can fix it, that means I wasn’t paying attention, which is why I fuck things up in the first place. If I stop trying, I’m wrong for not even trying, and if I say: she sets me up? I’m the crazy person.”

“That’s fairly baroque,” says Eliot.

“See?”

“I don’t think you’re crazy,” says Eliot. “I think you’re upset. Understandably.” Quentin starts to protest; Eliot cuts him off. “I believe you. Honestly. But your mother is not the point here.”

“Right,” says Quentin. He seems less agitated, more deflated. “Because I’m a grown-ass adult and I shouldn’t let her get under my skin.”

“That’s not what I was going to say. Look. Let’s logic this through. It’s not realistic to pack up the entire house overnight, whether she expects you to or not. So forget that. Here’s the point: Everything here now belongs to you.”

Quentin is quiet.

“Unless,” Eliot allows, “he said something else in his will. From everything we know about your dad, that seems unlikely. You’re his next of kin. If he didn’t leave a will, that makes things more complicated—“

“He probably didn’t. Fuck. I should have been here.”

“Hold on, hold on. It makes things more complicated, but it still defaults to you. Which means, the first reason why you’re here is so you can decide what you do and don’t want to keep.” 

“I don’t know,” says Quentin, but he’s starting to look a little less overwhelmed. “All the legal shit, if she’s already doing it or if I’m supposed to…”

“So, we’ll find out more tomorrow. We will. Meanwhile: we took care of the planes. As far as you know, that’s the only thing we needed to do tonight. If you want to, we can pack some more boxes. If you don’t, that’ll be okay too.”

“…Yeah.” Quentin runs a hand through his hair. He offers a crooked, embarrassed smile. “You’re probably right. I’m sorry I flipped out. My blood sugar’s probably crashing or something.”

“Do you want to eat?”

Quentin considers. “I guess we should. Pizza? There’s ok Chinese.”

“Anything’s fine,” says Eliot. “There are a few items in the fridge, by the way.”

“…Oh,” says Quentin. “I don’t think…we should probably just clean it out.”

Eliot follows him into the kitchen. “You want to do that now?”

Quentin shrugs, already beginning to pull out cartons and cans. “Might as well. Do you want to order? Menus should be in the top drawer.”

Eliot’s sifting through them when he becomes aware that Quentin’s standing in front of the open freezer door, tears pouring silently down his face. He goes to Quentin, wraps him in his arms, rocks him. 

The freezer beeps a complaint. Eliot nudges the door shut. 

“So stupid,” whispers Quentin. He arms a sleeve across his face. 

“Ah, Q.” 

“I feel like this isn’t really happening, you know?”

“I know,” says Eliot. “I know.” He kisses him gently, wherever he can reach.

Eventually, Quentin presses the heels of his hands to his eyes. “Can we maybe just go instead of ordering in?”

“Good thought,” says Eliot. 

The Chinese place looks like it came straight off the set of _Mad Men_ : deep-set booths, pink wallpaper, red lamps, giant garish cocktails lavished with maraschino cherries. Something is set aflame at the adjacent table. Eliot approves thoroughly. 

Quentin gestures at the last potsticker on the platter. 

“All yours,” says Eliot. 

“I don’t know why I’m so hungry,” says Quentin. He spears the dumpling with a single chopstick.

“Well, that’s good, right?”

“I guess,” says Quentin. 

Eliot nods at Quentin’s Tsingtao. “Top you up?” 

Quentin hesitates. “Sure.” 

Eliot orders another old fashioned for himself while they’re at it. “And the check, please,” he adds. A few other diners still linger, but the lone waiter clearly wants to go home.

Quentin leans back and sighs. He looks at Eliot. “If I didn’t already say ‘thank you’…”

“Oh, please,” says Eliot.

“Seriously,” says Quentin. “It means a lot. And helps. A lot.” He fiddles with his beer. “Have you done this before?”

“How do you mean?” 

“This whole…process.”

Eliot shrugs slightly. “More or less.”

“I know how you feel about your dad,” says Quentin, “but…what about the rest of your family?

“What about them?” says Eliot. 

“Sorry,” says Quentin. “I don’t mean to pry.”

Eliot tries for a gentler tone. “You can ask. Of course you can ask. I’l tell you all about it. Some snowy night in front of the fire. I think they want us to get out of here.”

They both reach for the check, Eliot arriving first. “Come on,” says Quentin. Eliot gives in. 

As he’s signing, Quentin looks at him wryly. “Not what I had in mind for our first actual date.”

Eliot smiles. “We’ll make up for it.”

Home again, home again, jiggity jig. Quentin struggles a little with the key. Eliot rubs his eyes; he’s suddenly struck by just how much they’ve gone through in what’s actually only been about three days.

Quentin touches him on the shoulder. “Hey.” He kisses Eliot. It’s sweet. Unhurried. Eliot palms the back of Quentin’s neck, caressing the tender nape. 

When they break, Eliot says, “So.”

“So,” says Quentin.

“What…do you want to do now?”

“Uh…” Quentin looks around. “Actually…sorry, but, I feel like I should still do more around here before…anything else.”

“Whatever you need,” says Eliot. 

Quentin pushes his hair back. “What if…we finish cleaning out the kitchen, put out the trash. That’s pretty straightforward. Then, I can look around, see if there’s anything major I’m missing before they show up tomorrow and I get too distracted and, you know.”

“Why don’t I do the kitchen,” says Eliot, “while you go through the house. We can take anything that you want to take. And then, how about we go sleep somewhere else.”

“Isn’t it kind of late to find a hotel?”

“There is always a Motel 6 when you really need one," Eliot intones.

The cleanout takes Eliot longer than he expected. When he’s finished, it’s not immediately obvious where Quentin’s gone off to.

“Q?”

He finds him in what looks to be a guest bedroom. Quentin is lying on the bed, engrossed in a book. He traces his mouth with a finger as he reads. An open carton, full nearly to the brim with more books, sits by the side of the bed; there’s another, smaller box next to it. Eliot watches him for a little while.

He knocks softly on the open door. “Q.”

Quentin starts, jerking his hand away from his mouth. He smiles sheepishly.

“I found these in the back of the closet, behind all the junk. I can’t believe they were just sitting here all these years.” 

Eliot quirks an eyebrow. “Fillory?”

“No,” says Quentin. He laughs a little. “Pretty much every other book I used to read, before I got obsessed with Fillory.”

Eliot comes over and sits on the bed. Quentin shows him the book he’s been holding. _The Phantom Tollbooth,_ reads the yellowing, tattered title page; it’s missing its cover. “Dad gave me this one. I think it might have been his,” he says. “I loved it. There’s this kid called Milo, who, he’s bored all the time. One day, he gets this mysterious package in the mail. It’s the tollbooth, he has to put it together, and this tiny little car. He drives through, and there’s—it’s about how education can be fun and exciting, but it doesn’t shove it down your throat. Kind of like _Alice in Wonderland,_ but with math. Actually, there’s math in that too, _Alice_ …” Quentin trails off. 

“You have a lot of books in here,” Eliot remarks.

Quentin sifts through the boxes. “I know I had a lot more. I had the whole Oz series. The originals by Frank Baum, and all the other ones, too.”

“There was more than one Oz book?” says Eliot.

“Oh my God, yeah. There are fourteen by Baum alone, and then the publishers hired a couple of other writers to keep it going. This 80’s movie, _Return to Oz_ , it sort of mashes up the first couple of sequels, but it’s weird and creepy, kind of a cult classic. It’s supposed to be too dark for kids; I stopped watching it when I was a little older, because there’s this, uh. So, they have her in a mental hospital, it’s kind of a cheesy, um, but. Uh…and, so, just last year there was a TV miniseries, it’s super loose adaptation of the first few books, but it's the first one that keeps Ozma’s origin story: you know, she’s the rightful ruler of Oz, and they’re looking for her the whole second book, and at the very end you find out the boy protagonist was under an enchantment from the witch who raised him; he was actually her the whole time, Ozma. Only in the show he switches back, I think, or maybe back and forth? Sorry. Spoilers. And—god, there’s so much Oz media out there. You didn’t know about any of this?”

“I did not know about any of that,” Eliot says gravely. “And now, I do.”

Quentin’s struck by a thought. “We never even tried any of the other pools in the Neitherlands, did we? That’s incredible, actually. All those other worlds…” He looks askance at the Oz book he’s holding. “Do you think everything’s real? All the books that were ever written?”

“Honestly,” says Eliot, “I hope not.”

“…Yeah,” says Quentin. “Still…” He smothers a yawn.

“Are you ready to go?”

“What time is it?” Eliot tells him. Quentin groans. “We don’t know what time the guy is coming, do we?”

“I don’t,” says Eliot. 

“I mean, I didn’t want to stay here,” says Quentin, “but maybe it makes more sense.” 

“Conveniently located on a bed,” Eliot agrees.

Quentin casts an arm over his eyes. “I think I’m too tired to sleep.”

“Want me to read you a story?” says Eliot. 

Quentin snort-laughs. “Sure.”

“Seriously,” says Eliot. Quentin looks at him. He seems strangely uncomfortable. Eliot mentally shrugs. Noted. 

“Okay,” he says, “you read me one.”

Quentin laughs again, but it doesn’t feel as fraught. “Seriously.”

“Yeah,” says Eliot. He flops down with his head in Quentin’s lap. “Tell me a story.”

Quentin rolls his eyes, but he lays a gentle hand on Eliot’s head. “Fine. Jesus. Any requests?”

“Pick something,” Eliot says. He closes his eyes. “Something simple,” he amends. He’s completely exhausted, it turns out. He has the brief disorienting sensation of falling, then snapping back. Quentin rummages through the box, one-handed.

“Oh, wow,” says Quentin. “This is one of the first books I ever remember reading.”

“Do that one.”

Another embarrassed laugh. “It’s super young.”

“Keep young and beautiful." He's really out of it.

There’s a pause. The creak of a hard cover. Paper whispering to itself. Quentin’s soft, slow voice.

“There was once a velveteen rabbit, and in the beginning he was really splendid. He was fat and bunchy, as a rabbit should be; his coat was spotted brown and white, he had real thread whiskers, and his ears were lined with pink sateen.”**

“You have a nice voice,” Eliot murmurs. He’s rapidly losing consciousness. Fragments permeate here and there as he drifts away:

“"What is REAL?' asked the Rabbit. '…Does it hurt?”

“"Sometimes,' said the Skin Horse, for he was always truthful. 'When you are Real you don't mind being hurt.'"

"'Does it happen all at once, like being wound up,'" he asked, 'or bit by bit?'"

"'It doesn't happen all at once,'" said the Skin Horse. 'You become. It takes a long time. That's why it doesn't happen often to people who break easily, or have sharp edges, or who have to be carefully kept. Generally, by the time you are Real, most of your hair has been loved off, and your eyes drop out and you get loose in the joints and very shabby. But these things don't matter at all, because once you are Real you can't be ugly, except to people who don't understand…'”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ** _[The Velveteen Rabbit](https://archive.org/stream/thevelveteenrabb11757gut/11757.txt%22)_ Margery Williams.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A short, bitter bark of laughter, unlike anything Eliot’s heard from Quentin. “It comes from pain. Did we forget that?"

He awakens to an afterimage of vividly colored tiles in an infinity pattern, fading rapidly into a blur of watercolor pastels. His eyes sting. It is dark, and for several disorientating moments he can’t remember where he is.

Quentin’s voice is quiet. “El?”

“Yeah.” He clears his throat. “I’m awake.”

“Sorry. I didn’t know if you—I turned the light off.”

“S’okay.” He’s still wearing all his clothes, he notices muzzily. He should do something about it, he supposes. “Can you sleep?”

“No. I tried.”

“Well,” says Eliot. Thoughts come to him very slowly. “At least you’re lying down. Some rest.”

Quentin is silent. Then: “It’s weird, isn’t it.”

“What is?” murmurs Eliot.

“That we don’t remember stuff like this-about each other. Family, everything. We’ve talked about it before, right? During fifty years.”

Eliot is fully awake now. 

“Right?” Quentin persists. “We must have.”

“I imagine we were busy,” Eliot says lightly. “The rustic life. Solving the grand existential question through heavy lifting and jigsaws. Maybe there wasn’t much time to talk.”

“What’s it feel like for you?” asks Quentin. “Does it just sort of hit you out of the blue sometimes?”

Eliot shifts, uncomfortable. 

“Eliot?” Doubt creeps into Quentin’s voice. “What do you remember?”

“I remember…remembering. With you. Especially when you talk about it again.”

“Oh,” Quentin says softly. He doesn’t say anything more.

Eliot sighs. “Truthfully, Q, there’s a lot I don’t remember. In general.”

“What do you mean?” Now he sounds apprehensive.

“I have a tendency to forget. I’ve probably repressed a lot of memories.”

“But…repress, why would you want to, those…?”

“I’m not saying I wanted to. It—happens. Life long habit. Why are you bringing this up now?”

“…I don’t know,” Quentin says, sounding miserable. 

Shit. “Q, listen—“

“I told him,” says Quentin abruptly.

“Told…?” 

“My father,” says Quentin. “I told him everything. That Fillory is real. That I’d been a king. That I’d lived a whole other life, that I’d been—married. Had a son. Grandchildren. That I—we—named our son after him.” His voice drops lower and lower until Eliot can barely hear him. “The last…The last time I saw him.”

“Wow,” says Eliot, after a moment. He doesn’t follow it up. There’s something hanging in the air here, and his every instinct is to get away from it. His throat is dry, his fingers itch; he thinks of his flask with a sharp longing, as for an old flame. 

“Why did we bring it back?”

Eliot shakes his head slightly. “What? Magic? What?”

A short, bitter bark of laughter, unlike anything Eliot’s heard from Quentin. “It comes from pain. Did we forget that? I guess we all forget things. I did.”

“Pain didn’t go away just because the magic did.”

“No. But some things did. He was in remission. Did you know? Did I tell you?”

“I…don’t think so.”

“He was in remission,” repeats Quentin. “Apparently, the cancer was magical in origin. So, when the magic came back…”

“I’m sorry,” says Eliot. “Jesus. I’m so sorry, Q.”

“She was right,” Quentin says thickly.

“…Who’s right about what?”

“Alice said,” says Quentin. Eliot can hear him swallow. “She said I was kidding myself. That I romanticize everything. I’m such a fucking idiot.”

“Why would you listen to Alice? About anything? What are you talking about?”

“I just, I told myself, if I can just look him in the eye…” He trails off.

“Q, I’m trying really hard to follow you here.”

“It’s my fault he’s dead.”

“What? Come on, Q.”

“I knew. How do you not get this? I knew what would happen if we brought magic back, and I did it anyway.”

Eliot moistens his lips. “So, let’s walk this through…” Quentin sighs loudly. “You weren’t alone on the Quest. We all wanted magic back.”

“Not all of us.”

“Fuck Alice. With or without you, someone would have turned it back on. Us, or the Library…”

“We don’t know that.”

“Q…”

“I _told_ him. I didn’t even ask him. I just…told him. Like, I’ll tell my father to his face, hey, I know this will probably kill you, but it’s for the greater good, so, deal.” He snorts. “‘That’s brave, right? I’m a fucking goddamned hero.” 

“And if you had asked him, what do you think he would have said?”

“I don’t know.” Quentin’s voice cracks.

“Yes, you do.”

“No, I don’t. Neither do you. Anyway, it’s too late now.” Next to him, Eliot can feel Quentin shake his head. “I knew it was goodbye, and I told myself it was okay, because I knew—She’s right about that too. I couldn’t face it. I knew I wasn’t coming back. One way or another.”

Eliot’s finding it hard to breathe. “Q.”

“And it was okay, you know? Because I already had a whole life. I got to live happily ever after. Who gets that? I was done.”

“Well, I’m not,” says Eliot. It comes out much louder and harsher than he intends. Quentin recoils.

“I’m sorry,” says Quentin. “I didn’t mean you, I didn’t—I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I—you should have left me down there.”

“Oh my God, Q, stop.”

“I deserve it.” 

“Please, Christ. Just stop.” Eliot can’t remember the last time he’s cried. Quentin can tell, of course.

“ Oh—no.” He touches Eliot’s cheek. Now his voice is high, almost childlike. “I didn’t mean to—please don’t. I’m sorry. I’m—“

“Don’t be sorry,” Eliot says roughly. He puts his face in his hands. “I, don’t know what to say. I don’t know what to do.” 

“You don’t have to,” Quentin says. He’s almost inaudible.

“Look…I know. Life is a shit sandwich. No matter what we choose, we’re fucked. And, I’ve done some terrible fucking things. I can’t take them back. I…get the feeling. Okay? I don’t deal with it in quite the same way, but—you’re not alone, Q. Know that.” He casts about for inspiration. “I know you want to do hard things. What if the hard thing is to live with it? Can you do that?” 

Quentin is silent. Eliot closes his eyes against the darkness.

“Because, people who love you need you here, Q. Just…stay. Can you do that, Q?” He swallows convulsively. “Please?”

“…Okay.” It’s barely a whisper. Eliot lets out a long breath. 

“I will,” says Quentin. “I promise. I’m s—“ He stops himself. Eliot gathers him into his arms.

“It’s okay,” says Eliot. “You can be sorry. Or not sorry. Just stay. That’s all you have to do. Just one thing.” He buries his face in Quentin’s hair. “Just one thing.”

“El,” Quentin says, after a while.

Eliot wipes his eyes. “Yeah.”

Wordlessly, Quentin takes Eliot’s hand and places it on Quentin’s chest. He puts his own hand over Eliot’s heart. 

It’s an old, familiar feeling, one he’s almost forgotten that he missed: a slight crackling in the fingers, a sense of promise, potential, building. Gentle, though, and warm, this current.

Improbable as it seems, he’s starting to drift off again. As he does, the thought comes to him:

_Maybe it doesn’t only come from pain._


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brunch appears to be an all-day affair, as are complimentary mimosas. He downs the first two quickly: the first out of nervousness; the second, a calculation. There’s a buffet, which provides an excellent excuse to get up frequently. Before Quentin can make his first escape, his mother, having dispensed with the pleasantries of weather and traffic, says to Eliot:
> 
> “So, what do you do? Are you working, or are you in school, or are you finding yourself, like Quentin?”
> 
> Eliot’s lovely smile never falters. “Q and I met at graduate school; we’re both still matriculating. But really, aren’t we all finding ourselves?”...

The maddeningly seductive aroma of bacon frying might have eventually woken him, even without the blare of the smoke alarm. Thankfully, the noise has already stopped by the time he pads into the kitchen, still rubbing grit from his eyes. Eliot presides at the stove, elegantly turned out in shades of cream, managing—as Quentin never could—to keep entirely spatter-free. A mossy tie brings out the green in his eyes. 

“This vent has seen better days,” he says. “You ok?” He half turns to face Quentin; he’s whisking eggs in a bowl.

“…I am,” says Quentin. Oddly enough, he means it. “Need any help?”

“No no no, sit sit sit.” Eliot clicks his tongue. Quentin obediently sits at the Formica table. 

“Is all that from the fridge?” he asks, trying not to sound like he's afraid of food poisoning.

“Went shopping. You were out like a light.” Eliot carefully suspends the bowl in a pot already simmering on the stove. “Can’t get this heat low enough…Tell you what, I’d love some of this coffee, if you know where a machine is. And take the bacon, I can’t leave the eggs.”

Quentin obliges, grateful for something to do. Soon, the coffee conmingles its fragrance with that of the bacon and the melting butter. It smells like home. 

“How are you?” he asks.

“I,” says Eliot, “am grand.” He’s still gently stirring the pot. He jerks his chin at the bacon plate. “Eat, for god’s sake, before it’s cold.”

It’s fantastic—just the right balance of smoke, grease, and crunch—but a quiet sadness blooms in Quentin. It takes him a minute to remember why. He tries to shrug it off. “Those must be some complicated eggs.”

“It’s an art form,” says Eliot. “We’re just about there.” He tastes his creation, adds a pinch of salt. He joins Quentin at the table, bearing the two plates. 

Quentin takes a forkful: something between a savory custard and a cloud. “Amazing,” he says, to Eliot’s raised-eyebrow prompt. “So like, what’s your secret?”

Eliot smiles a little. “Have you ever been to Mont St. Michel? Northern France.” 

Quentin shakes his head. “Not counting Fillory, I’ve never been out of the U.S. Well. Except.” Another trip down memory lane, one he definitely prefers not to dwell on. 

“We’ll have to fix that. Anyway, there’s a restaurant—don’t bother, hideously overpriced tourist trap— a hundred years ago, it was famous for perfect omelettes. Everyone begged the owner for the recipe. Secret ingredient? Special equipment? Finally, she tells someone, ‘Here’s the recipe: I take some eggs, I beat them, I melt butter in a pan, I pour in the eggs, and I shake them constantly. I am happy, sir, if this recipe pleases you.’ Which is basically French for,” Eliot extends a long middle finger.

Quentin smiles politely; then, possibly triggered by something about Eliot’s elegantly manicured fuck-you, starts to snicker. He keeps going. It’s a kind of release.

“It’s not really that funny,” says Eliot, bemused. 

“I’m laughing,” says Quentin, “because you’re as big a nerd as I am.”

“It’s just a scramble, anyway,” says Eliot. He moves to take the dishes to the sink. 

“I’ll do it,” says Quentin. It’s soothing to scrub and dry, he finds: the warm suds, the mindlessness. He looks out the kitchen window into the back yard. Two grey squirrels chitter and chase each other through the branches of the nearest tree; their antics send more russet and gold leaves fluttering gently toward the withered grass. It’s gnarled and unbeautiful, like most of the trees. He used to climb that one. He’d perch on the wide second-lowest branch with a book, carefully balancing a bottle of soda or a juice box in the trunk’s vee. He wonders whether the next owners will leave it or cut it down. 

Next to him, Eliot wipes down the stove and countertops. He’s humming something Quentin doesn’t recognize. 

“El,” says Quentin. He’s still facing the window.

“Hm?”

“I love you, you know.” 

He waits, shoulders slightly tensed, until Eliot’s warm arms come to circle him from behind. He lets his head fall back, eyes closed; lets the rest of himself melt a little. The wind rattles the windowpane. He turns to face Eliot, puts his arms around his neck, stretches up for a kiss. Women get shoes for this, he thinks vaguely. Somewhere, there’s a church bell ringing the hour; he can’t count the chimes. A lot.

“I don’t want to do this,” he says. Eliot furrows his brow at him. Quentin cuts his eyes in the general direction of the front door, and all its implied entrants. “Besides, we just ate. Can’t you just tell them…God, I don’t know. Maybe we can hide until they go away?” 

“Now, now,” says Eliot. “Familial duty calls. We made a commitment.”

“I didn’t—!”

Eliot smiles. “Come on. It’ll be fun.”

“Fun,” Quentin repeats. “Like, in the root canal sense?”

“Have you ever had a root canal?”

“No.”

“Well, there you go: more new and exciting experiences to look forward to.” Eliot kisses him briefly. “Love you. I’ll man the door. Go shower.”

“Thanks,” Quentin says drily. He knows how badly he needs one. 

Refreshed by torrents of near-scalding water, he puts the travel-worn black hoodie and jeans back on with reluctance. He eyes his reflection dubiously; they’ll make an odd couple. It occurs to him to check the dresser in the guest room (it hasn’t been “his” for a long time), where he does indeed find a few button-downs and a rumpled but clean blue sweater. A little better. The doorbell rings. He sighs, and wonders if Eliot can give him a crash tutorial on hair product. 

It’s only the plane collector, a sweet elderly man with a slight stutter. He and Eliot are just helping him load up the last boxes when his mother and Molly pull up. He knows he’s imagining it, but her car itself seems affronted at not being able to use the driveway. Polite introductions are made all around, and then they’re alone, the four of them. He’s already starting to itch. 

“Why don’t we meet you there,” says Eliot. Quentin realizes he’s tuned out the initial where-are-we-going-and-whose-car-shall-we-take thrusts and parries. It’s autopilot for him, really; he’s just as thankful no one’s even pretending to consult him on these decisions today. Molly’s gaze is fixed somewhere between the eaves of the house and the sky. She’s never been interested in driving. It makes things easier.

The restaurant was Eliot’s choice, it transpires, picked out and reserved yesterday evening. A hotel, one of the fancier ones in the area: nowhere he’d have had occasion to go before. Brunch appears to be an all-day affair, as are complimentary mimosas. He downs the first two quickly: the first out of nervousness; the second, a calculation. There’s a buffet, which provides an excellent excuse to get up frequently. Before Quentin can make his first escape, his mother, having dispensed with the pleasantries of weather and traffic, says to Eliot:

“So, what do you do? Are you working, or are you in school, or are you finding yourself, like Quentin?”

Eliot’s lovely smile never falters. “Q and I met at graduate school; we’re both still matriculating. But really, aren’t we all finding ourselves?”

“Oh,” she says. She turns to Quentin. “I was under the impression you’d dropped out. Weren’t you studying finance?” 

“I, um,” says Quentin. An unpleasant prickly warmth is rising in him, not helped by the alcohol flush. “That was a, a different program. Before. I—“

“Well, what you’re doing now still counts,” says Eliot. “I suppose we all internalize this idea that if it’s in the arts, it’s not really business. Thank God you can do the numbers,” he says, looking at Quentin. “Someone has to. It certainly isn’t my area.”

“I see,” says his mother. “And what is your area?”

“I’m an actor,” says Eliot. 

“And where did you say you go to school?”

“The Mayakovsky Institute,” says Eliot.

“I’m not familiar,” says his mother. “I suppose there’s no reason I should be. It’s a university program?”

“Oh, yes,” says Eliot.”

“Is it fairly new?”

“In this country,” says Eliot. Quentin, despite his appalled fascination, decides that now’s as good a chance as any to take a break. He dawdles at the carving station until the glares and mutters from the line behind him are too obvious to ignore. 

“…forest in the Southern Carpathians,” Eliot is saying. “Stunningly beautiful, just…pristine. You really feel that you’re in another world.”

“And you were completely isolated?” asks his mother. 

“The nearest village is a two hour walk. Wi-fi was spotty at best, and of course there was none at the retreat.” Eliot spreads his hands as if in tacit apology, then moves on. “It was a truly unique experience. Very intense, a lot of hard work—Mayakovsky’s brutal on everyone—but there was also a lot of bonding, and then, of course, what we all created. Magical, really.” 

“It reminds me of Grotowski,” says his mother. “The tight-knit company, the milieu setting, the use of the body—hands, you said—“

“Yes!” says Eliot. “You know his work?”

“ _Towards a Poor Theatre,_ ” his mother says. “I used to be so fascinated. I do wonder what role a business manager would play in that aesthetic,” she says, indicating Quentin.

“Even starving artists need to eat occasionally,” Eliot says easily. “On that note. Should we have something a little more late afternoon-ish? A nice Gewurtz? Q? Joy?” 

“I’m easy,” says his mother. Quentin makes a gesture; he’s not sure what it means. He’s not sure it matters. Eliot motions the waiter. “And another iced tea, Molly?” 

As the waiter clears dishes and fills fresh glasses, Eliot returns his rapt gaze to Quentin’s mother. “So, you were saying before; is theatre related to your…discipline?”

“There’s not a lot of overlap these days. Interdepartmental politics, you know…” She makes a face. “But I wrote my dissertation on the application of Brechtian semiotics to Kristeva’s theory of the abject.”

“Really,” says Eliot. “That sounds brilliant. I admire Kristeva tremendously.”

Quentin sighs. Time to get this over with. “How have you been, Molly?”

The pale eyes drift in his direction. “Good.” Her face is as mild and inscrutable as ever. 

“How’s the painting?” he tries. “Any shows, or anything?”

“Fair,” she says. “Not lately.” She chews placidly on a shrimp. The usual tangle of feelings—irritation, guilt, a muted sadness—isn’t made more palatable by the five or so drinks he now has sloshing around inside of him. He gives up. 

They’re at dessert, and Quentin’s close to falling asleep at the table before he remembers why they’re here in the first place.

“Mom,” he says, clearing his throat. “Dad’s…estate. What else do I need to do?”

She looks at him. “What else?” 

With an effort of will, he pretends _you haven’t actually done anything_ isn’t the rest of that sentence, and simply waits, for once.

Eventually, she says, “I’ve been getting the house in shape, on the assumption you’ll be putting it on the market. You’ll want to find an agent ASAP. Here’s the attorney I’ve been working with. Bob Armstrong.” She hands him a card. “Obviously you can always find someone else.”

“…Okay,” says Quentin. “Um. Thanks. So…was there a will, or…?”

His mother just says, “Talk to Armstrong.” 

“All right,” says Quentin. He waits. “Is that it?”

“It is for us,” says Joy. “Molly and I are going back to Northampton tomorrow.”

“Right,” says Quentin. “So…Thank you. For everything. Seriously. I really am sorry I couldn’t get here earlier.”

“Mm. Well, here we are,” she says. Then, “Please. Let me. At least our share.” Eliot’s already signing the bill. He makes a pushing-away motion at her. 

“Well. Thank you so much for a lovely evening. So glad we had the opportunity to meet you.” With a start, Quentin realizes his mother is more than a little tipsy.

“The pleasure is mine,” says Eliot. 

As they walk back to the car, Eliot says, “Let’s go back to the city tonight, hm? It’s just as easy to commute by portal.”

“Yeah, might as well.”

He waits until they’re safely enclosed and pulling away. “So, what was all that happy horseshit back there? Were you…you were just entertaining yourself the whole time, weren’t you? That’s why you asked her.”

Eliot turns and grins at him. 

“Jesus, you’re a dick.”

“Yeah,” says Eliot, “but you have to admit I’m good company.” 

“Watch the road. Did you even know who Julia Kristeva was before tonight?”

“Not a clue,” says Eliot cheerfully. “Although, ‘abject’ seemed strangely appropriate as the evening wore on.”

“I told you.”

“I mean it in the best possible sense. I like a little existential horror and despair to go with my steam table prime rib. I like Molly,” Eliot adds. “Good conversationalist.”

Quentin sighs. “I think she’s worse since the last time I saw them.”

“Is she…okay?”

He shrugs. “She’s just in her own world, mostly. Funny, my mother keeps bitching about how Dad didn’t talk, but then…well, you saw that. The difference is, Molly stays in the room with her. Maybe they even talk to each other when they’re alone, I don’t know. The thing is, I get it. I…go away, too. But, when it’s both of you just sitting there…” He eyes Eliot sourly. “Not as much fun as it looks like.”

“All right, look,” says Eliot. “I’m a bitch, as we know, but that wasn’t the point. I know it’s hard to believe, but it actually means something that you brought me home to meet your family. It’s not a thing I’d ever be able to do.”

The annoyance melts out of Quentin. “Right,” he says. “Your family…” He hesitates.

“Farm. Indiana,” says Eliot. “You knew that.”

“I…maybe. Are they-are they all still there?”

“Probably. They tend to stick to familiar territory. Still: four brothers, one token sister, not to mention all my lovely extended family, I suppose someone might have flown the nest by now. Wherever they are, I’m sure they’re making America great again.” A small, humorless smile.

“You’re not in touch with any of them?”

“No.” Eliot looks straight ahead.

“So…” Quentin considers how to proceed. “How’d you get away?”

Now Eliot glances over with a real smile. “Theatre.”

“Seriously?”

“Drama club: the only thing besides internet porn that got me through my adolescence. Not ‘experimental theatre,’” obviously. _Oklahoma_ , _The King and I_ , _Les Miz_... I loved it. I really did want to be an actor. As soon as I could scrape enough money together, I left. Just a small town boy, etcetera, etcetera.” 

“Where did you go?”

“Chicago,” says Eliot. “And…further.” 

“Did you do any acting?”

Another hard little smile. “You could say that.” 

“Okay,” says Quentin. He doesn’t want to set off any landmines. He’s liable to trip at the best of times, he knows, and he’s stumbling under the added weight of emotional exhaustion and booze. It’s a lonely and familiar feeling. 

“I reinvented myself,” Eliot says, as though this explains everything. 

“Okay,” Quentin says again. “How?”

Eliot seems to be weighing his options. “A lot of life is theatre, really,” he says finally. “Costumes. How you walk and talk. What’s your story. Once you figure that out and decide who you want to play, a lot of doors can open for you.”

Quentin considers this. “I don’t think I could do that,” he says.

Eliot looks him up and down. “Don’t underestimate yourself.”

The horizon is streaked in delicate shades of rose and purple. Eliot turns the radio on. Some dancey electronica. Quentin’s never really gotten into that kind of music, but it seems to fit right now, somehow: the thrum of the bass, the rumble of the road.

“Hey,” he says. “Where are we going to stay tonight?”

“I’m thinking the Hilton,” says Eliot.

“…Uh. Is that…in our price range?”

“We’re Magicians.”

“What does that mean? Are we supposed to get some special discount I didn’t know about?”

“It means,” says Eliot, “that we have options that we don’t always exploit, but can.”

“Uh…”

“And also, recently laid off monarch, still married to a sitting monarch. I'm entitled to a generous severance package.”

“Have you discussed this with Fen or Margo?”

Eliot pats his knee. “You’ve been through a lot. Why not just…let the worrying go for one night? Hm? Let’s have some fun.”

Quentin rolls the word around in his brain: _fun_. It’s like a not-quite-translatable Sanskrit term whose concept he needs to grasp for a spell. 

“Fun,” he repeats softly, half-closing his eyes. Waves of pleasant warmth steal over him; he really is still quite drunk, he thinks fuzzily. Good for him. Good for everyone. The music throbs around and through him. 

_Oh, sometimes, I get a good feeling…get a feeling that I’ve never ever known before no no I get a good feeling, yeah…_

Quentin leans his seat all the way back and closes his eyes. Eliot turns onto the Tappan Zee and hits the gas.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ** Etta James lyrics from "Something's Got a Hold On Me," as sampled by a number of songs. I was thinking "Levels" by Avicii, but Fedde Le Grand or one of the earlier breakbeat numbers would work as well. Not Flo Rida. 
> 
> Anyway, [the video ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_ovdm2yX4MA) seemed fitting, also.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Several seasons later...

She’d really like to go home now. Not that “home” is a word that actually means something. It definitely isn’t the cramped and moldering third floor walkup she currently shares with an aging drummer and her on-again-off-again boyfriend; but at least she’ll finally be able to sit down, and the heat is on. Well, as of this morning, anyway. She blows on her raw, red fingers and stamps her feet. Imagine: surrounded by books, and completely miserable. She never would have thought it was possible; and yet, here she is.

“My God, it’s freezing,” says Deirdre, bustling to join her behind the register. “How is this May?”

“I know, right?” She’s making an extra effort here. Smile, eye contact, turn to face the other person. It’s a practice, she supposes, like meditation or going to the gym. Optimistic projects that have also fallen by the wayside, but never mind that right now. “I think it’s even supposed to snow this week.” 

“God,” Deirdre says. “But, there’s no climate change. That’s just crazy talk.”

“You mean, there’s no global warming,” Max says cheerfully. He’s one of the more human managers. She wonders whether he’d look the other way if she begs off early. “Obviously, the planet is getting colder. We should burn more coal to warm us up.”

“How about setting fire to Trump Tower?” says Deirdre. “That’s got to have some kind of environmental impact. All the ambient hairspray left over could blow another hole in the ozone layer. Which, obviously, we need.” 

“Obviously,” says Max. He’s thumbing through an illustrated hardback that someone left on the floor; it’s a slow night. _The Tempest_.

She coughs; she’s only half faking it. It’ll be at least the third cold she’s had this spring. She needs to get out of here: this store, this city, this state, this country; hell, this planet. 

“You okay, Joan?” says Max. Right on cue. It’s possible that he does want to bone her, she supposes. It doesn’t matter. 

“I’m not feeling great,” she says, doing her best to sound pathetic. “Would you mind if I went home? I can close on Tuesday.”

“Go, go, shoo,” he says. “Don’t worry about it.”

“Thanks, Max.” Remember to hold the smile. 

She’s just heading for the front door when he walks in through it, because of course he does. Almost instinctively, she ducks behind a shelf before he sees her. Thankfully, he’s as distractable as ever, already browsing his way through the first display that catches his eye. God, she’s an idiot. How was he _not_ going to come in here? She knew he was living in the city, and _obviously_ he goes to every bookstore in town, especially this one. 

No, let's be honest: she didn’t decide to move here, of all places, _in spite_ of the possibility that she’d see him again. Shadowed by the stacks, she watches. He looks good. Different in some ways that she can’t quite pin down. Well, better dressed, she supposes: she’s not very good about noticing clothes, but that coat looks expensive, and it fits him well. His hair might be shorter, or it might just be tucked into his hat. There’s something else, though. Maybe it’s in the way he moves. More fluid, more assured. Like he’s all in one piece, now.

“Joan?” Max peers at her from the other side of the shelf. “I thought you were going home.”

“I..forgot my other bag.” She turns on her heel and makes for the back room. She briefly considers the smallest casting to make sure of his location before she leaves. Not worth it. She’ll manage.

“Alice.”

She wheels, heart in her mouth. She knows that voice. 

“Oh, God.”

The woman standing before her is clearly braless under a stained Hothead Paisan T-shirt. Her hair is loose and unkempt; her face seems strangely naked. It takes Alice a moment to realize why.

“You were hard to find.” Still the same sweet voice, but oddly cadenced. Two little mincing steps forward; Alice shrinks back and hits a shelf.

“What do you want?” she says, trying to keep the tremor out of her voice. Part of her wants to scream and run; the detached, cold voice that’s never left her tells her to stand her ground. _Be bold, be bold._

“I want you to be my friend.”

“Why?”

Another step closer. “You...know how things work. You're--smart. Smarter than anyone. No, more. You...understand. You…” The eyes suddenly flame gold. “You have something inside you.”

“No,” Alice whispers. But somewhere deep within, that small, cold part of her knows, and is known. 

_Be bold, be bold, but not too bold…_

It leans forward. Its breath is meaty. “You’ll help me.”

“Joan. Hey. Hey.” Max is coming toward them, a concerned look on his face. “Ma’am, we’re closing. I need you to—“

Without taking its shining eyes from Alice’s face, it crooks a single finger. There’s a sickening crack; head unnaturally twisted, Max thuds to the floor. 

“Oh, God,” says Alice, but she knows better than to raise her voice. She has to get it out of here before it sees anyone else. Him, above all. With an enormous effort, she forces a smile onto her face. 

“…Okay,” she says. “Why don’t we go somewhere…nice, and you can tell me what you want me to do.”

A wide, delighted smile that never fit that face before. “I knew you would understand,” it says. “This is going to be so much fun.” It puts its face right up to hers, conspirator to conspirator. Clamps a cold hand around her wrist.

“You know,” it confides, “I _really_ hate books.”

And the eyes that once belonged to Zelda Schiff turn blood red.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The "For Want of a Nail" series is basically one long continuous story. Thanks so much for following along. Currently working on the next segment, [Mon péché mignon ("my little weakness")](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20018803?view_full_work=true), where Q and E live in New York and settle into the relationship. All comments appreciated; I'm happy to chat.


End file.
